Smaug
by Anonymoose12
Summary: Essentially, the Hobbit from Smaug's Perspective.


**_This is a thing that I wrote for a school assignment. The topic was 'giving voice to the silenced' and I was decided it was fanfction time! My teacher thinks I'm a nutcase (and he's right) but I had fun writing it :)_**

_Alone. All alone in the cold and the dark and the silence. Alone, yet not lonely. Old. Centuries old now, the last of his kind. Old, yet not close to a natural death. Lying there on a cold, sharp bed, he slept peacefully. Until they came back. Came with their swords and their axes. Came to kill him. _

It was a normal day, until suddenly the dragon came. A great flying inferno of heat and flame. The town of Dale was destroyed that day, with the surviving villagers fleeing desperately across the lake. The dragon flew onto the mountain, driving the Dwarves out of their home, breathing fire on those that were too slow to run. Then it was his; all his. The gold and the jewels and the precious metals. His desire was finally sated- at least for now.

Smaug the Magnificent; that was what they called him. Not so magnificent now, with a scale missing above his left breast and not being able to leave the mountain and hunt in years. But he had the treasure. That was his now, and it always would was no sound like the gentle clink of gold and silver under his scaled belly, no sight like the gleaming of rubies and no smell like the tangy, bitter smell of old metal. It was all he had.

As he slept, something moved in his hall. A little creature, somehow invisible, crept up near him and took a two-handed cup before fleeing desperately back down the hall. Smaug awoke to the scent of fresh air. Something was wrong; something was missing. He roared with sorrow and anger, writhing in distress upon his costly bed. He sped from his lair, settling at the peak of the mountain, lettings his eyes roam the slopes for the cruel thief. There! Horse. Horses meant people and people meant thieves. And so he swept down, chasing the ponies and searching for the thief. But it was gone, disappeared, leaving him alone once again. More alone than ever before, with part of his one joy in life thoughtlessly taken. He crawled sadly into his lair, resting with one eye open to catch the thief if he returned.

And he did. Somehow invisible, with an unfamiliar scent- not dwarf, nor yet man. Smaug spoke, his voice soft and welcoming, inviting the unknown creature in, asking him to help himself to his hoard. But the creature would not listen, and spoke words of deceptive flattery, speaking in riddles and strange titles. None had spoken to Smaug in years, now here was one fascinating and capturing him with riddles, thinking himself oh-so clever, but revealing his ties to the Lake town, where Smaug had not set foot in years. Smaug smiled, and spoke again, telling the strange creature that he knew the truth: he was there with dwarves, in a party of fourteen, as a burglar. The creature slipped then, admitting that the party was there for things other than gold. Smaug felt relief, it was his gold, and if they had other objectives then perhaps they would leave him alone once they discovered his tremendous might: his shielding armour, his sword-like teeth, his thunderbolt tail, the hurricane of his wings, and breath that brought death. And that was not all, Smaug was clever and cunning, he knew how to speak to strike fear and doubt into the thief's mind- words regarding the use of the gold, the conveyance of the gold and whether or not his party appreciated him. The thief attempted to resist these words, babbling about revenge and bitter enemies. Smaug laughed a terrible laugh, joyously mocking the thief for his words. Who still lived to seek revenge? Who would dare? But then the thief frightened him, reminding Smaug of his missing scale which, despite his gold and jewel encrusted body, persisted in revealing soft and fleshy skin beneath. Smaug bluffed, exaggerating his defences, making the thief speak again of his impenetrableness, and his staggering perfection. The creature fled, with a last parting shot about the difficulty of catching burglars, causing Smaug to send flames down the tunnel after him. The tunnel that had always caused him doubt and worry.

Later in the evening,Smaug left his stronghold and flew for Esgaroth, the lake-town, the place that had helped the strange thief-creature. They would see. They would soon know who was the real King under the Mountain. They came running to welcome him, the fools, believing that their plan had worked, that the dwarves had succeeded in their 'revenge'. Idiots. But a lone sensible man, who realised the foolishness of his fellow villagers and so they prepared. But it would not work. He ripped apart the bridge connecting them to the land, preventing them from fleeing in cowardly desperation, but they had water. Water deep and dark and cool, that would vanquish him if he entered, and so he remained in flight, flying over and burning their arrows in malicious, mocking glee. They should have, and would have given up long ago, if it weren't for the efforts of the lone sensible man, who encouraged and ordered them on, helped them scurry with water, vanquishing sparks . Smaug was oblivious, flying low and setting their pitiful town ablaze, a glorious towering pillar of fire roaring from the rooftops. So weeping and cursing, they fled, the men in the water and the women and children in boats. The so-called leader of the town, the Master, himself was fleeing in cowardly desperation, trying to save himself amid the flaming chaos. Not that it would matter, not to Smaug, for they could not land without meeting his wrath, manifested in the intended blazing of the crops and forests of the shore. No, they would have to float in terror, where he could pick them off at ease whenever his hunger needed sating. Smaug knew he could, and would, win.

But a small company of archers yet remained amongst the burning debris of the village, led by the sensible one. They shot in vain though, for no arrows could ever pierce Smaug's thick scaly armour. And so Smaug swept low, over the town of Dale, with the moon silver upon his wings and the gems in his belly afire with the reflection of the blazing houses, confident in his power, in his righteousness, and in the strength of his armour; he flew to his death. The leader of the archers, the sensible one, assisted by the whisperings of a thrush bird- for these men made allies and friends with all, whilst Smaug was destined to be alone and cold and hated- drew back his powerful bow, laden with a dwarvish arrow, and shot straight into the dragon's left breast, the very place without a scale. Smaug screamed with pain and anger and despair- he was vanquished, not even graced with a powerful mage or renowned warrior as his assassin, but instead with a weak and inferior being graced by a bird's whispers and luck. Into the lake Smaug spiralled, thrashing and howling, to meet the watery grave that had been his doorstep for years.


End file.
